


Ho'oheno Ohana

by esteefee



Series: Ho'oheno [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Memorial Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a tag of sorts for Loa Aloha. But from a skewed perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ho'oheno Ohana

**Author's Note:**

> For you, Pops, for Memorial Day.

When the cemetery notified him the permanent headstone marker had been installed—the brushed bronze one the Navy had provided—Steve put on his dress blues and went down there. He picked up some flowers on the way—lilacs, because he vaguely remembered they were his mom's favorites, and some small red ones mixed in, because they looked vibrant against the purple. That was his dad and mom; the storm against the calm.

He cleaned out the dead leaves from the empty container, and set the flowers inside, then stood and stared down at the grave for a while, but he wasn't ready for this. He didn't have the answers yet. So he took a goddamned picture and emailed it to Mary, so far away, still. And then he went home.

His collar felt too tight in the close heat of the house, and he yanked open the doors to the lanai before struggling out of his uniform, leaving his uniform jacket, his pants, his shirt and tie as a crumpled rebellion in the corner by the couch. Fuck it; they needed to be dry cleaned, anyway. Too many funerals on the tally.

The ocean was just cool enough to set him back in his skin, but he was still edgy beneath, wanting out, wanting away. Nothing simple was going to fix this today. He strode out of the low surf, the rippling return waves batting softly at his shins and ankles, and dried himself off enough that he wouldn't track sand on his way to the kitchen and the one beer waiting for him.

His one remaining beer that was apparently now open and in Danny Williams' hand.

Fuck. Not that he wasn't glad to see Danny, always. Always, and usually a little too glad. Just, today wasn't a good day. Today was a very bad day. Today it was a little too risky, because his skin, his muscles, his _bones_ were wrong, were all wrong with this fucked up—

"Hey, Danny. What're you doing here? I thought you had Grace today?" Steve cut himself off at Danny's frown of ire, one hand rising to begin a familiar sketch of fury.

"Oh, I had Grace, until Rachel belatedly let me know Grace's little friend was having a birthday party sleepover and my time would be cut short this weekend. Fantastic. Great. Funny how I'm the one getting short-changed—me, the guy who already gets to see her a scant four hundred hours a year." Danny took a swig of beer.

"That sucks."

"That sucks? That sucks. Hell, yes, that 'sucks'—" Danny's eyes traveled over him.

"Didn't I just say it did?" Steve started to cross his arms, then changed his mind and went to grab his T-shirt and shrugged it over his damp chest.

"I'm just detecting a certain lack of sincerity in your tone, there."

"My tone? My tone is great. I have great tone. It sucks for you, and I'm sorry."

"Okay."

"Okay." Steve dropped down on the couch and rubbed his hand over his face. Something neutral. Christ, he was in a bad way. "So—"

Danny's phone rang and he pulled it out to look at the screen.

"Gotta take this. It's Ma calling about Pop's birthday bash coming up."

Steve gritted his teeth. Picking up the remote, he turned on the TV, automatically switching away from the football game—just not today—and clicking until he hit some old New York City cop show. He tried to ignore the argument going on the background, but Danny's voice was a little hard to miss.

"What can I tell you? I told you I did everything I could. Everything. He just wouldn't listen, Ma."

Steve blinked hard and stared at the screen. He was pretty sure the bald detective didn't have a warrant when he went busting in like that. He'd have to tell Danny. They'd talk about police procedures, and Danny would give him shit, and Steve would recite the new and improved version of the Miranda Warning he'd been working on. And he wouldn't do the wrong thing. He just wouldn't, but his eyes kept sliding off the screen to watch Danny pacing back and forth, thick leg muscles encased in an old pair of jeans, because today was supposed to be his day with Grace. Twelve of his four hundred hours.

But he came here when it went bad.

The bald detective used a baseball bat to take perp's legs out from under him. Steve smiled. His gut still hurt. He wished he had a beer. He wished he had a fucking baseball bat.

"No, of course it's not going to be the same, but I'll still be there. You realize, I won't be able to afford the fancy presents Matty did, but then...no, that wasn't a joke. It just came out—look, I'm just mad at him, okay? You know I wouldn't—I'm sorry, Ma, c'mon, please—Jesus." Danny plunked down next to Steve on the couch. "She hung up on me. Can you believe it? My own mother." He tossed his phone on the coffee table. "My damned brother's got a lot to answer for. Jesus Christ, everything is so fucked up right now. Fuck, Matty, you really screwed up."

"Yeah, but at least he's alive, right?"

Danny cranked his head over to stare at him.

Okay. Steve really hadn't meant to say that. "Shit, I'm sorry, man. That was way out of line."

But Danny was already getting to his feet, still keeping his eyes on Steve as if he'd turned into a rabid dog or something. Probably not far off the mark, there. Steve wasn't sure where his self-control had got to, but he'd damned well better find it fast, or their friendship and any shot Steve had at anything else would be toast.

"What the hell—no, I'm asking this sincerely, McGarrett, so you'd better have an answer ready for me, what in the name of my sweet Aunt Tilly was that?"

Great. Danny's eyes were shooting around the room as if hunting for drug paraphernalia. They locked on something beside the couch, but since Steve was pretty sure he didn't have any bongs in the house, he couldn't imagine what Danny was staring at.

"What?" Steve tried to catch his attention. "I said I was sorry. I don't know what I was saying, all right?"

As Steve was talking, Danny had walked over to the corner and bent down to pick up...oh. Steve's uniform jacket. He always hung it up, always treated the uniform with respect, just like his dad had taught him.

Danny was giving him the hairy eyeball. "Wanna tell me something?"

Steve shrugged. "Nothing to tell. Needs to go to the cleaners."

"Uh-huh." Danny dropped the jacket and headed over to the counter by the kitchen. Steve stood up, suddenly nervous.

"What're you up to, Williams?"

Danny's back was to him; he was fiddling with something. Suddenly, his head dropped, and he turned.

He was holding Steve's cell phone, a picture up on the screen.

"You know, I would've come with you. You should've asked." Danny's voice was hoarse. "Don't you know anything by now?"

Steve had to fight a sudden rush in his gut, and he turned away. He could do this. He did this all the time. It was nothing new. Hell, this was just like every other stinking day, and no one, from Chin to Kono to Danny to Kamekona would ever get this, _could_ ever get this, even if he tried to explain. They'd just stare at him and their faces would change and they'd look like someone pissed on their birthday cake.

Only Mary got it. Mary was the only one, and he called her sometimes, and they'd talk about it a little, the words hollow and sharp and brittle like candy shards, tasting better somehow because they shared them. Only the two of them, but Mary was so far away, and he was alone here, now.

"You don't get it," Steve said, then jerked when Danny's hand closed on his shoulder.

"I get it."

"Fuck." Steve clenched his teeth against the next words. "Don't make me say this, Danny. I like you, all right? And that's, it's cool. Let it be cool."

"You're asking me that? What kind of—" Danny shook him a little. "Tell me what I don't get, babe."

 _That you should be on your fucking_ knees _, all right? Matty isn't dead! Matty might be a fucking disappointment, he might miss your dad's birthday parties, but he's still alive in this fucking world, yeah? You have—Jesus, such_ wealth _, four hundred_ hours _of wealth a year with Grace, and two living parents, and two sisters that aren't being threatened by a criminal—_

"I'm jealous, all right?" Steve blinked hard and stared past the open doors into the clear blue sky. "Jealous of what you got. Family. And I said I was sorry—" Danny's hand squeezed hard, stopping him, turning him, warm when he was so damned cold.

"Steve." Danny's hand moved down to his chest. "Yeah, I do get that—but maybe..."

And hell if he'd ever seen an expression like that on Danny's face before, so focused and goddamned open and aimed right at him, so maybe it was worth it, tearing his guts out and handing them over. Christ, Danny looked—

"Maybe you don't have to be—jealous, I mean." Danny's eyes weren't quite meeting his. They seemed to be staring down at his chin, which didn't make any sense.

_Oh._

Steve licked his lips. "How—you mean—?"

A smile quirked the edge of Danny's mouth. "I learned how to share in kindergarten, Steven."

"Fuck, Danny—"

"Now don't go being precipitous," Danny said, but fuck it, Steve kissed him.

This thing, this itch that lived under his skin, this hollow ache that went beneath his bones, down to the marrow—he thought he would kill Danny with it if he let it loose, but somehow, somehow the opposite happened. Danny's tongue slipped lazily into his mouth, and Danny's arms stretched around him, stronger than anything, knitting his skin back in place, heating his muscles, and he groaned and shifted his grip on Danny's shoulders, pulling him in tight and close and closer still.

Danny moaned something back, something that sounded like, _Finally,_ but probably more likely was, _Asshole_ —Steve didn't care, because Danny was all around him; it felt like he was warming him with his own blood, and that shouldn't be any surprise at all, because Danny was so goddamned generous with himself, always, always, and he had enough to spare. Or at least Steve hoped.

"Can you handle this?" Steve asked, and maybe Danny knew he wasn't talking about the hard-on he was pressing against Danny's hip, because Danny kissed his jaw and just squeezed him even tighter, and held him, nodding like he got it.

Danny got it.

Steve sighed and rested his forehead against Danny's shoulder.

"Thank God," he whispered.

:::

The next week they went in together and bought Pops an electric snow blower. Danny said the five horsepower engine would be powerful enough— _We're talking Jersey, here, not the Arctic, McGarrett_.

Steve said screw that noise and chipped in extra for the eight.

  


_End._  


**Author's Note:**

> _It's just not possible for John McGarrett's headstone marker to have been completed in time for ep 01x04, a mere 21 days after his death. The military doesn't do them that fast. It doesn't take five months, either, but... ::handwaves::_


End file.
